


Adventure of the Knight's Hood

by Shrewreadings



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Sherlock (TV), West Wing
Genre: Epistolary, F/F, Gen, M/M, Spaniels, Vehicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:13:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shrewreadings/pseuds/Shrewreadings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13422761"> this prompt</a> on the Sherlock BBC kink meme.<br/>Mycroft follows through with his threat and gives Sherlock a knighthood much to Sherlock's dismay. He does his best to delete it from his hard drive, but nobody will let him and now the Queen keeps inviting him to tea, wanting to hear about his latest case. John's blog has gain an international readership and paparazzi are following their every move. Sherlock and John have become the tabloids hottest couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in fall of 2010.
> 
> There are elements of slash, style, form and substance. Sharpshooters may object to snipers' objectification as Christmas gifts. Dog haters may object to the favorable characterization of a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Spaniel lovers may object to the deprivation of said spaniel being deprived of trifle. Fans of Italian engineering may object to Dr. Watson's reaction to a German sports car. BMW, Porsche, Audi and Sherlock fans may object to the object of Dr. Watson's affection being a Mercedes. There are significant original characters: they're female and have the temerity to behave in manners that distinguish them from doormats.
> 
> [AJ Hall](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AJHall/pseuds/AJHall) gracefully answered questions about UK patent law and British medical training. [ Yin](http://yin-again.livejournal.com/) patiently did not bite my head off when I was whiny and wanted feedback. [BeadAttitude](http://beadattitude.livejournal.com/) and [Elgraves](http://elgraves.livejournal.com/) assured me that the WIP did not suck.
> 
> No alpacas, cashmere goats or Cavalier King Charles Spaniels were harmed in the writing of this story, but I did attempt to sit upon the Miniature Pinscher at (at least) one point.

**Friday Afternoon, October 8, 2010**

 

The heavy cream envelope glowered at Sherlock Holmes from the mantel.  It had been contaminating the flat since its arrival that morning.  John, at some continuing education conference, the details of which Sherlock had deleted immediately upon disclosure, was due back some time this afternoon, British Rail permitting.

Sherlock had refreshed the ETA for John's train at King's Cross 19 times since its departure from Leeds 3 hours ago.  The analysis of his data for a study of the comparative freezing points of beer ran on the desktop. He'd tried doing the data analysis and train watching on the same machine before moving the train monitoring to the laptop: apparently asking the same machine to run SPSS and refresh 8 Firefox tabs simultaneously slowed the IBM to processing speeds Sherlock had not seen since he reset Mycroft's Apple II+'s date to 12/31/99 back in 1987.

His mobile chirped. An exceedingly tedious inspector Martin of Northumberland had texted him again about a painfully obvious blackmail-murder-suicide among an inbred community of Reliant Robin enthusiasts originally from Sheffield.  Sherlock texted John again.

_SH:      Bored._  
 _JW:      Gt Portland. Freezing. Kettle?_  
 _SH:      Yes, we could do with a new one. Call at M &S on way home._  
  
Sherlock hit 'send' just as the mobile rang, and inadvertently answered a call from Mycroft.

"Sherlock, how kind of you to take my call. It's this Bath business."

Sherlock hung up.

Mycroft rang back.

Sherlock ignored the phone.

The desktop computer beeped.  Sherlock turned and looked at the results on the desktop screen.  He pulled the keyboard on to his lap to open the analysis of cans' and bottles' relative hardness, breaking points and shattering patterns.  He glared at the data sets in much the same way he had at Brussels sprouts at dinner when he was eight.  He poked listlessly at alt-tab. He kept tapping as the building's door opened, John hung up his jacket by the stairs, came up, tripping on the carpet at the landing, and came in through the kitchen door.

John tucked his wheeled case against the wall next to the door. He closed and locked the door before looking at Sherlock.  "Have you moved since Tuesday?"

"Mmmm."  He tapped alt-tab again.

"Anything new?" John picked up the mail pile from the mantel and sank down into the arm chair.  Something squawked. He pulled a stuffed stoat from behind the Union Jack and set it down on the floor next to him.

"Just the astonishing ease with which you are willing to use me to further heretofore latent social climbing tendencies." Sherlock closed the program windows on the desktop with a viciousness he usually reserved for correspondence with the editors of the Times' cryptic crossword. He set the the desktop's keyboard down on the desk with unnecessary force. The tinny, plastic clatter of keys belied the flourish of his wrist.

Watson's face did not alter from its customary expression of bewilderment.  "Pardon?"

"No."

"Sorry?"

"No, I will not pardon you. This is really the end, John." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his chin at the oversized envelope with the crimson seal, sandwiched between an ad for double-glazing and offering John a limited-time-only opportunity to purchase a timeshare flat in Gwynnedd.

"Of any semblance of sanity, if nothing else," John muttered.

"Sanity! Semblance! This from the man who..."

"Not to ruin a perfectly good rant," John interrupted, "but I meant, 'what the fuck are you _on_ about, Sherlock?' Not, 'oh, do, please forgive me my horrific trespass of existing.'"

Sherlock sighed out through his nose. "Oh."

"Yes."  John dropped the mail on the coffee table, and the resulting slide of paper left the offending envelope on the top of the pile. 

"Well."  Sherlock pulled his feet up to the chair. "That." He pointed at the envelope.

"This." John picked it up.  He turned it over in his hands. Addressed to him, full title, degree, and membership in the Royal College of Surgeons.  Complicated seal. Unicorn on the right. Return address of two lines.

John snorted. "Joke. Has to be. Stamford, probably.  Just his type."

Sherlock looked out the window and sighed.  John felt if he were possibly the slowest student ever to set foot into Prof. Holmes' laboratory practicum ever.

"Not a joke?"

"Not a joke. I did say Mycroft threatened me."

"Yes, but that was before you invited Moriarty to come and get the memory stick from the pool and Mycroft sent his early Christmas present of seven snipers sniping."

"Still not a joke."

John stood up, took the knife out of the mantel, carefully slit the seal, and slid the equally heavy paper out of the envelope.

The text was precisely what he expected it to be.

The signature at the bottom was either an exceptional forgery or the real thing.

The text referred to both John and his companion.

"You turned him down, you said."

"I did."

"Then why is this here?"

"You, evidently, did not turn Mycroft down. Not that _you_ turning Mycroft down would change his mind any more than the pleading of a daffodil changes the turning of the sun."

"Gee, thanks."  Watson looked at the letter again and sat down harder than he'd planned to.  "So where's yours?"

"Won't be coming."

John extended the letter across the room to Sherlock. "Are you certain of that?"

Sherlock looked at the letter. It referred to exceptional heroism in the combat of terror, which could be talking about Afghanistan just as easily as it could be talking about London.  It also referred to the heroism of John and his companion, which did limit the likely scenarios to those closer to home.

Sherlock was not at all sure he liked the idea of being a 'companion.' It made him suspect John of keeping a library the size of the Bodleian in his wardrobe and of owning a ten foot long scarf.  He was certain he didn't like the idea of being Lady Watson.

The realization that he wouldn't object to the idea of John being Lady Holmes, however, was new.  He rolled the idea over inside his brain for a moment, tasting it like a new sample of rock from Iceland. 

The idea tasted unexpectedly like gingerbread.

He handed the letter back to John. "Yes, I'm sure."

"No, you're not." John re-folded the letter and carefully put it back into the envelope.

"All right, I'm not. But I haven't done anything to aggravate Mycroft more than usual lately, and everyone else in the family is afraid of him, so I don't think it's likely."

"Likely?"

"Seven per cent confidence interval."

"So within the margin of publication, but only just."

Sherlock didn't answer.

 

 

**E-mail correspondence of J. Abilowe, S. Holmes, M. Holmes, L. Hudson, J. Watson, and P. Wimsey of Friday, October 8, 2010.**

 

From:Mycroft@dsux.org  
To:Sherlock@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Re:Bath

This was not my doing. Documentation of this fact is en route via courier. I request and require that you not hijack this one. I have gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that Melissa has remained in my employ.

MH

 

From:  LHudson@bakerstreet.telecom.co.uk  
To:JWatson@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
Re: Bath?

What's Sherlock shouting about? I had it re-done after the Hopkins moved to Milton Keynes.

 

From:JWatson@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
To:LHudson@bakerstreet.telecom.co.uk  
Re:Re: Bath?

Nothing to do with the plumbing, Mrs. Hudson. He's not bored any more, at least, so your wall is safe.

 

From:JAbilowe@GAO.gov.us  
To:MHolmes@whitehall.gov.uk  
Re:Re: Marbury

Mycroft --

I am quite confident the leak did not come from Ambassador Lord John Marbury's private ambassadorial staff: whether lower levels were involved has not been examined by the FBI, and naturally treaty obligations prevent us from doing so.  Assistance in this matter would not be unwelcome.

Congratulate Sherlock on John's appearance on the Christmas Honours list for me. Knight of the Bath -  I'm sure your brother's livid.

James P. Abilowe  
Sr. Auditor  
Government Accounting Office  
441 G St NW  
Washington, DC 20548  
(202) 512-3000

 

From:MHolmes@whitehall.gov.uk  
To: JAbilowe@GAO.gov  
CC: SHolmes@blackberry.co.uk  
           ``PWimsey@blackberry.co.uk  
Re:Re: Re: Marbury

James:

I am gratified by your assurances about Lord John's personal staff and am aware of the treaty obligations. I am ascertaining schedules of availability, and will advise you as to our representative's arrival.

I have not yet gotten confirmation of Dr. Watson's acceptance of the offered knighthood, however am gratified by the entertainment now being offered for the Christmas season. The casting for pantomimes looked appalling.

Best,

Mycroft Holmes  
Sr. Auditor  
Whitehall, Westminster  
London SW 1A

 

From:SHolmes@blackberry.co.uk  
To:MHolmes@whitehall.gov.uk  
Re:Re: Re: Re: Marbury

Absolutely not.

Did you know Melissa left school with 4 A-levels in maths, chemistry, German and physics?

SH

           

From:MHolmes@whitehall.gov.uk  
To:SHolmes@blackberry.co.uk  
Re:Melissa Was Re: Re: Re: Re: Marbury

5, Sherlock.

MH **  
**


	2. Chapter 2

****Saturday Morning, October 9, 2010** **

 

John sat down in the armchair next to Sherlock's desk.  Two manila folders and a second cream envelope had joined the cream envelope addressed to John on the blotter. Sherlock watched them from his perch on the couch across the room, one arm across his chest, knuckle of the other hand at his mouth.  His ridiculously long feet were bare and braced against the couch cushion, knees bent, open dressing gown draped around him. He seemed concerned that if, left unobserved, the office supplies might reproduce, littering the world with interoffice envelopes and save-the-date cards. 

Leaving them out overnight had not had this result so far. Melissa, the somewhat nervy-looking younger assistant to Mycroft, had delivered the files well after dark. It was possible, John supposed, that sunlight might prove a reproductive catalyst. 

Sherlock muttered. "Five."

"Five?" John asked. "Five what? Knighthoods? Suspects? Miniature Shetland ponies?"

Sherlock shook his head. "A-levels."

"Sorry, what?"

"Melissa."

John blinked. "Sorry, did I miss something?"

"Mycroft's answer."

"This requires tea."  John stood up and went to the kitchen.  Sherlock had been right the previous afternoon: their kettle was starting to fray around the power cable connection. He checked it was full of water, as opposed to corn syrup or bat saliva. John wasn't sure what would distinguish bat saliva from any other mammal's, but he _was_ certain Sherlock would tell him, in exhaustive detail, distinguishing between sub-Saharan African bats that navigated by echolocation and Amazonian fruit bats. He clicked the kettle on and spooned tea into the teapot.

When he came back into the room, Sherlock had moved to the desk and picked up one of Mycroft's folders.  A Post-It note was attached to the front of the manila folder, which Sherlock held about two inches from his nose.

"Any use?"

Sherlock shrugged.  "Cheap fountain pen, blue-black ink, no smudge. Joined up lettering between the 'o' and 'l' of 'Holmes,' but not between the 'w' and 'a' of Watson, and a cursive 's' in both surnames.  What is the _fifth?_ "  It would bother him the rest of the day, he was certain.

"Was."

"Sorry?"

"Was the fifth. Tuesday, remember?"

Sherlock glowered at him "No, 'what is the _fifth_ A-level Melissa took?' Chemistry, German, maths, physics. What is the _fifth?_ "

"Still past tense. She's been out of school for two years."  The kettle clicked, and Watson went back to the kitchen, poured the water into the teapot, poured two mugs and brought them back into the sitting room. He set one on the table next to Sherlock and sat back down with his own in the armchair across from him. "And art history."

"What?"

"Her fifth A-level. Art history."

Sherlock looked appalled. "Good God, what did she want -- Wait, how do you know what she took?"

"Window in the stairs. She was dropping something off for you, I let her in, she commented on the window, and I asked how she knew it was reproduction Art Deco. She said she did an A-level in Art History her first year after GCSE."

"Proper waste of time. What on earth did she do that for?"

"I think she said something about a scheduling conflict with her biology lab and literature."

Holmes' nose wrinkled in distaste. " _Lit_ erature. The things we force children to do."

"Oh, yeah, clearly the _Odyssey_ was deeply scarring to you and Mycroft both."

Sherlock met John's eyes. "You have no idea. I suspect the story of the Cyclops was particularly instructive for his future aspirations." He dropped the manila folder back on the desk.

John nodded at the desk. "I see yours turned up. So you can't persuade Mycroft, either?"

"Oh, persuading Mycroft is a waste of time. I blackmailed Mycroft."

"And yet, there sits the envelope."

"Indeed."

"So who put you up for it?"

"Abigail."

"Who?"

"American girl. Does forensics for some agency in Washington. Can't imagine why she stays."

"So why are you still staring at the envelope as if it's laced with, I don't know, ant powder?"

"I'm not staring at my envelope. I'm not even staring at the file on my nomination."

"What are you staring at, then?"

"The file on yours."

**E-mail correspondence of S. Holmes and  P. Wimsey of Saturday, October 9, 2010**

 

From:PWimsey@blackberry.co.uk  
To:       SHolmes@blackberry.co.uk  
Re:       Re: Paper & Patents

 

Bad  luck re Xmas list. I did warn you about submitting pat app & paper for peer rev.

In re paper query, approximately  5m cases sold British Isles last year; 2 m England. You're right that biggest purchaser of this brand are universities (would have thought you'd recognized it: surely you've still got a copy of that Black-Scholes documentary transcript (if you do, fwd copy soonest, pls. If have video, pls also fwd.))

Not suitable for stocking in copiers: too light.

Ink jet or laser?

PHMW

 

_SH:            Ink_   
_PHMW:      WTH? Uni printer ctr = laser. Higher eff'cy._   
_SH:           Golly, is it. Hadn't noticed._   
_PHMW:``:P  Brand?_   
_SH:``Lexmark_   
_PHMW:     Blast_   
_SH:          Agreed._   
_PHMW:    Also, re DC, not It. Your cousin, your problem._   
_SH:         Your cousin, too. Mutual maternal great grandmother, remember? And I dealt with Pakistan._   
_PHMW:    Pakistan? Where was I?_   
_SH:         Lithuania._   
_PHMW:   Damn._   
_SH:        Give my regards to the Vaces in Cleveland Park._

**Saturday afternoon, October 9, 2010, Marleybone Library, London, NW1.**

 

"Why no rugby Purple until 3rd year?"

John jumped and dropped all three volumes of Shelby Foote's _The Civil War_.  The bomb-like echoes of the three-thousand odd pages hitting the floor of the Marleybone library were only matched by the echoes of John bumping into the shelf, hopping and holding his left foot.

The librarian glared at both of them over her computer screen and hissed. "Dr. _Watson_."

"Sorry. I'm so sorry."  John gingerly put his foot down and glared at Sherlock. "Do you think, for your next hobby, you might consider learning how to make some noise when you're walking?"

"Do keep your voice down, John, or Ms. Sterine will boot us to the street. What are you _doing_ here, anyway? I texted twice."

"I turn it off when I come in, the way the sign asks? And it's Saturday. Errands. You know, things ordinary people do to make sure there's clean laundry and that the library fines don't rival the national debt of Sweden? And she'd no more kick us out than she would drown a kitten. She's got a worse crush on you than Molly does, and I didn't think that was possible." Sherlock stalked John while he checked out his books and tucked them into his rucksack, and pulled him back just as he was stepping out into the path of an oncoming Prius on Salisbury Place.

"Well?" Sherlock repeated, a note of impatience in his voice.

"Well?" John replied, looking right, then left, then stepping across the road toward Baker Street and turned on to Gloucester Place.

"Third year. Why?"

"Oh. Broke my collarbone."

"Ah. The left."

"No, the right.  Bad tackle. Ended messily – worse for him than for me, the scrum broke his ankle in 3 places. Kiwi, orthopaedic surgeon, now.  Meant to look him up.  So, that was right at the end of Michaelmas term 2nd year, and that was it for me for the season. Royally ticked the captain and coach off: apparently I was the first prop they'd had who could actually take direction." John turned right on Baker Street, toward the Waitrose on the other side of the public gardens. 

Sherlock turned back toward Regent's Park.

"Right, don't mind me. I'll just go on for the shopping myself."

"Can you get some biscuits? We're out of the coconut ones."

"You never eat the coconut ones."

"Yes, but they soak up the ammonia really well." Sherlock strode off back towards 221B, late October winds furling his coat out behind him.

"Oh, _that's_ reassuring." 

 

John came to his senses in the dairy aisle, and, since he was using Sherlock's card, paid the extra fee to have the groceries delivered.  He took the coffee and tea with him in the rucksack, along with the Rich Tea biscuits, leaving the coconut because he was still grumpy about the sore toes.

A cardboard box with Amazon's logo littered the landing between the sitting room and the stairs up to the bedrooms. John looked from the box through the open door at Sherlock, who was staring at an envelope under a magnifying lamp, and back at the box.  "You know, Waitrose lets you order online these days. Do a delivery service, too."

"Do they. That _is_ convenient."

John set the tea, coffee and biscuits on the kitchen counter and picked up the _Telegraph_ from the coffee table in the sitting room.  The crossword was filled in, as was the Sudoku, and a note scribbled in the side about Luton being spelled with one 't,' not two, and that their under-17s were called 'colts,' not 'foals.' Sherlock's mobile was on the coffee table next to the rest of the papers, and the text sent to the address entry 'Telegraph Twit.'

The response read: 'number has blocked text: message cannot be sent.'  John snorted quietly through his nose and set the paper back down next to the mobile. "Ever considered getting a job doing the puzzle writing yourself?"

"Dull."

"Shocking." John looked at the envelope over Sherlock's shoulder.  "What's that?"

"The envelope in which your nomination letter was sent to the Cabinet Office. Sponge moistened, self-adhesive stamp. Can't for the life of me imagine who they thought they were fooling with the Manchester return address – the author's no more a Lancastrian than Richard III."

"June 12. Cambridge." John murmured, reading the postmark. "Were we here, or still haring after those cargo containers?"

"Along with the alpaca-cashmere futures fraud and the ergonomic keyboards, yes. We were here, but you hadn't put your absurdly alliterative account on your blog yet."

"Who goes from Manchester to Cambridge to mail a letter? A student?"

Holmes scrunched nose and shook his head. He waved at the letter. "Not with this language. 'I trust this nomination will not go unnoticed.'"  He typed a query into the database program on the desktop.

"Sounds like he'd get in a huff about prepositions at the end of sentences."

"Certainly the sort of English up with which our A. N. Ominous would refuse to put." 

John tilted his head, looking at the signature. Something about it looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. "You're certain Mycroft's got nothing to do with this?"

"Quite. He's deceptive beyond the wildest imaginings of a tabloid writer, but volunteering his innocence? Not like him unless he actually _hasn't_ done something."

John read the paragraph referring to 'heroism' again, muttered.  Sherlock's mobile chirped.

"Would you?"

"Mmm? Oh. Sure." John grabbed the mobile from the coffee table. "POTS, out with the dogs, hack it yourself, you know the password."

"Pots?"

"P-O-T-S, actually. Piss off, today's Saturday.  Who sent this?"

"Home office. Wanted some ISPs for the bibliography."  Sherlock looked at the screen again. "Blast. Over 100 models in the last five years. We'll have to go to Buckinghamshire."


	3. Chapter 3

**Correspondence of A. Busead, I. Holmes, M. Holmes, S. Holmes, M. Parker, and P. Wimsey, Sunday, October 10, 2010**

 

From:Mycroft@dsux.org

To:       Sherlock@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Re:       Home Office

 

Rabbits nicely bouncing. St. James's Park station closed. Times webmaster livid. Howling about Human Rights Act again.  Better than Iron Chef.

 

From:   Sherlock@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

To:       Mycroft@dsux.org

Cc:       PHMWimsey@duchyofdenver.co.uk

Re:       Re: Home office, Washington

_So_ glad to be of service.

 

Wimsey claimed not It for Washington, but concedes Pakistan > Lithuania.

 

From:   ABusead@whitehall.gov.uk

To:       PHMWimsey@whitehall.gov.uk

Re:       Washington

 

Per Mr. Holmes' instructions, attached confirmation of tickets for Dulles International Airport. Diplomatic credentials and file en route to Picadilly flat by courier.

 

A. Busead

Assistant Auditor

Whitehall, Westminster

London SW 1A

 

From:   PHMWimsey@duchyofdenver.co.uk

To:       Sherlock@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Re:       Re: Loan of Bernie

 

Only if Dr. Watson drives. Crichton unavailable; Spare keys left with Monroe.

Arrive DC 14:30: Vace open on Monday?

 

PHMW

 

From:   Sherlock@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

To:       PHMWimsey@blackberry.co.uk

Re:       Re: Re: Loan of Bernie

 

9:00 – 21:00

Will fetch keys Monday.

Did I leave half chaps at St. George's?

 

SH

 

From:   PHMWimsey@blackberry.co.uk

To:       Sherlock@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Re:       Re: Re: Re: Loan of Bernie

 

Aunt Polly's. Downstairs closet next to umbrella stand.

 

PHMW

 

From:   Sherlock@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

To:       Polly.Parker@gmail.co.uk

CC:      PHMWimsey@blackberry.co.uk

Re:       Half chaps Was Re: Re: Re: Re: Loan of Bernie

 

Will be in neighborhood - fetching tomorrow.

 

SH

 

From:   ITHolmes@ThislemoFilms.co.uk

To:       PHMWimsey@duchyofdenver.co.uk

CC:      SHolmes@Scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Re:       Frontline: 'The Crash'

 

Widgeon --

Videos of the documentary in question no longer available for sale: suggest interlibrary loan.  Worldcat suggests available in US @ Colby, Emerson, Dartmouth.  Transcript source from http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/crash/etc/script.html, doc-copy attached.

If in DC and have spare time, can you check a reference for me? Folger's ought to have folio in question - I'm sure you have a minion you can send. 2nd attachment, notes #5, 7 and 26.

Ducks

Attachments:   TheCrashTranscript.doc

                        Finding_Shylock.doc

 

 

**Correspondence of M. Holmes and S. Holmes, Monday, October 11, 2010**

 

From:   MHolmes@dsux.org

To:       SHolmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Re:       3d quarter

 

Has joined Cartographers for Social Equality. Cause for concern – Y / Y?

 

From:   SHolmes@blackberry.co.uk

To:       MHolmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Re:       Re: 3d quarter

 

Only if you let her wind you up like this.

Minor? Perhaps a problem.

 

 

**Monday, October 11, 2010, Parker's Inquest, near Watlington, Oxfordshire.**

 

The Benz' automatic top closed with a slight mechanical whine and click of the clamps above the windscreen.

"Really, John, it's quite undignified."

"Mmm?" John put his sunglasses into their case and stowed it in the center console before climbing out.  He had a smile on his face that belonged on the centerfold of a magazine mailed in brown paper wrappers.

Sherlock found himself wondering what _he_ had to do to put that smile there, other than spend approximately £70,000 on 1,900 kilos of precision German engineering. "You look like a schoolboy just informed of a serious outbreak of _e. coli_ amongst the school staff a week before summer holidays."  He retrieved his suit jacket from the boot, slid it on and straightened his tie. "Get the satchel, will you?"

John chuckled, grabbing Sherlock's satchel from behind his seat, clicked the 'lock' button and tucked the car keys into his pocket. "You're just annoyed that she wouldn't let you drive her."  The path to the door from the gravel driveway led through a neatly-mowed lawn featuring a Japanese maple tree and a pile of leaves approximately three feet high on the right.  The flower beds near the wall still had violas blooming: just over the wall he could see apples on trees.  "Why _wouldn't_ she let you driver her, anyway?"

"No reason in particular," Sherlock replied, taking the satchel from John.

 "You totaled the last one she let you drive, didn't you." They walked up the path past a level, rectangular patch of turf on the left: stumps stood on either end. John would have bet his pension that the pitch was precisely regulation. The effect was considerably more tasteful than the floral arrangements they'd left at Marlow: Lexmark had arranged its grounds to feature a garish floral arrangements of the Lexmark logo in dianthus and models of printers in what had appeared to be cabbage. 

"The repairs were paid for in their entirety, with additional payments for damages."

"Meaning the insurance paid out and bought a new one?"

"In the end, yes."

"Anything to do with why you had to move out of Montague Place?" John asked, admiring the view over the grounds. He could see a stable, a ring with several jumps placed in it, and a full greenhouse.

"Oh, no."  Sherlock knocked on the door to what he'd called the cottage when he'd directed John to turn in at the gate for 'Parker's Inquest.' It had to have at least 6 bedrooms, not including servants' quarters. "Harrowby Street."

The heavy oak door was opened by a tiny woman in her late 70s wearing navy corduroys and a green pullover. A pair of glasses sat on her nose, with another pair on a chain around her neck.  "Come for your kit at last, then, Sherlock?" She smiled broadly and opened her arms in the same way Mrs. Hudson had when John first met her, stepping out on to the stoop.

Sherlock back just smiled broadly and hugged her.  "Indeed, Aunt Polly. Aunt Polly, meet, my flatmate, Dr. John Watson."

"Of course," she extended her hand, "Polly Parker.  I've heard so much about you, Dr. Watson. Do come in."

"John, please, Miss Parker." John shook the extended hand and found its grip firmer than expected.

"Polly, please – no one's called me Miss Parker since I retired."  She led the way into the house into a kitchen dominated by an Aga and a butcher's block table, infused with the scent of lamb and potatoes.

Sherlock's eyes lit up and the boyish grin returned. "You're making shepherd's pie."

"I am."

"Yes, we'd be delighted." 

"Oh, good. I do hate making enough for four and then having to freeze most of it." She waved them toward the table. "Well?" she asked, sitting at the head of it and pouring them tea.  She pushed the sugar bowl towards Sherlock, passing John a mug of his own.

Sherlock set the satchel on the table and removed two files: the first from Mycroft, the second acquired this morning at Lexmark. "Intrigued, certainly. I'm not sure whether to be amused or aggravated."

"Or arrested for fraud," John murmured.

Miss Parker chuckled and pulled the file from Lexmark toward her.  "What did he do this time?"

"He said he was building a lab and wanted samples of product from commonly used inkjet printer equipment. Important that they be popular so he could easily get cartridges."

"It's only fraud if acting on the misleading information is going to lead to their injury," Sherlock retorted. "All I did was cut through five rounds with sales representatives to get the printing samples I needed."

"Sherlock, you told the man your budget for computer equipment and peripherals was in the range of £250,000!"

"How else could I get the attention of the sales director for England on a Sunday evening?"

"Boys," Miss Parker switched her glasses for the pair on the chain, looking at the samples, " _do_ be civil, or you can make the acquaintance of the corners of the pantry while lunch is finishing." 

Sherlock obediently fell silent on the other side of the table and folded his hands around his mug.  John kept his jaw from dropping open with an effort.   He made a note to ask Miss Parker how exactly she _did_ that.

"Mmm. Yes. Quite.  Where's the letter?"

Sherlock opened the other file and passed her the offending nomination letter. Miss Parker looked at it, nodded, then said, "John, behind you in the cabinet with the cake tins is a white rolled silicone sheet. Be a dear and fetch it, would you?"

"Of course, Miss Parker." 

"Polly, dear. Do pay attention."

"Sorry," John pushed back from the table, found the item, and passed it to her. "Anything else I can get while I'm up?"

"He's left his half chaps in the closet next to the umbrella stand in the utility room: would you put them by the front door? And Sherlock, take that tie off – Caroline's in New York, thank God, so no need to stand on ceremony.  Pass it to John and he'll put it with the chaps."

Sherlock, again surprisingly obedient, passed John the offending tie, opened his collar, pulled off the suit jacket, and hung it on the back of the chair. 

He was wearing the signet ring again, John noticed.  He wondered, as he walked through the butler's pantry, whether Miss Parker might be able to tell him about it. John found the umbrella stand in question, and the well-used half chaps in the closet adjacent, under four riding helmets of varying sizes, several hacking jackets, and ten pairs of paddock boots. The half chaps were leather, well cared for and broken in, and had a name-tape identifying Sherlock as the owner sewn into the inside of the zipper.  John ran his fingers over the leather for as he walked down the hall on the outside of the kitchen, setting the half chaps and tie on the narrow table by the front door, and circled back around to come into the kitchen.

"I'd say the X5075," she was saying as he sat back down, the silicone sheet now under the letters. "It's got that odd little spit at the semi-colon and foot of the capital 'T.' And that does nicely narrow your prospective locations to check."  She set the letter and sample page back into the knighthood file, and picked up her tea. "But of course, that's not really what you need."

Sherlock leaned over and looked at the letter and then at Miss Parker. "Isn't it?"

"Of course it's not."  The oven timer went off, and she switched her glasses.  John instinctively stepped behind her chair to assist her standing.  "Thank you, dear." She opened the door to the oven, and peered inside at the casserole. "Oh, good. John, pass me the pot-holders, would you? And Sherlock, be a dear and get the trivet from the sideboard in the dining room, please."

John found the garish green silicone pot-holders hanging on a hook by the sink. "Would it offend you terribly if I offered to get that for you, Miss Par-- Polly?"

"Of course not, and how sweet of you to ask first. Just set it on the stove top until Sherlock gets back. Sherlock! Do _not_ get distracted by the Son of Sam print. You can look at it after lunch!"  Her silver-blond hair swung as she pulled the refrigerator door open and removed a pitcher. "Lemonade all right? I know it's not quite customary for October, but it does go nicely with the shepherd's pie."

"That'd be lovely, thanks." John pulled a cabinet over the counter and to the right of the sink open, located glasses, bowls, and set them out. "Ice?"

"I've got it." Sherlock returned with trivet and an ice bucket. He set the trivet on the counter, the ice bucket on the table, and held their hostess' chair for her.

Polly patted Sherlock's hand and smiled. "We'll just let that cool bit.  Well done, John." She added, "feel like sharing?"

"Well," John said, shifting the casserole dish from stove-top to trivet. "You're left-handed, but there's no dishwasher and aren't any dish-gloves around.  Your cuticles aren't cracked the way they'd be if you did the dishes yourself, but you do have calluses from scrubbing something – the horses? Gardening?"

"Horses. Go on."

"That suggests there's likely someone else that does the dish-washing and putting up the dishes. Most people are right handed. The baking tins were also on the right, but the silicone roll on the left. It unrolled easily, but not quick or hard: it's been used a lot.  So what you need relatively frequently, you put on the left. But an older lady, with frequent visitors, but no steady group of cohabitants, doesn't need that many glasses – so the right was a better bet than left."

Miss Parker smiled. The crinkle of her eyes reflected mischief that convinced John that she actually _was_ related to Sherlock, though he would bet that she was not technically his aunt. "You guessed, didn't you."

John grinned. "Well, I did have a fifty-fifty shot." 

"You're right about the visitors, though," Sherlock commented. "I don't think there's a week gone by without one of us intruding."

"It's only intruding when you're unwelcome, and with Rebecca in America until New Year's, that's thankfully quite unlikely.  How did you get the visitors, John?"

"Closet. Boots of four or five sizes, a couple of pairs of each, several riding helmets, and the set of Barbours.  What would you call a collective of Barbours, anyway?"

"I've always favored 'rabble,'" Sherlock replied, "but I'm told 'brood' is also used. Aunt Polly," he asked, "you were saying about the letter?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Sherlock, it's not the prospective locations you need to look at. The printer doesn't come into it."

"Doesn't it?"

"Of course it doesn't.  Look at the letter, Sherlock." 

Sherlock looked at the ceiling and sighed through his nose. "I _have_ been looking at the letter. Why else do you think I brought it to you?"

"Because you're occasionally quite blind.  _Look_ at it, Sherlock. Look at the signature."  Polly pushed her chair back, waved John back into his seat, stood up, dished up the shepherds pie and passed the bowls to John and Sherlock before sitting back down with her own.  "Cutlery. Blast. John, would you? Just in the drawer behind you. Go ahead and dig in, don't wait for me."

"Of course," John fetched the silverware and passed it out before sitting back down.  He picked up his fork, broke the crust of the pie, and took a bite.  His eyes closed in rapture: the lamb was perfectly seasoned, the potatoes both fluffy and crisp at the crust without being dry underneath, the vegetables tender but not soggy.

Sherlock huffed, pulled the file toward him, and obediently looked at the letter as Polly poured the lemonade.  "Right, it's a signature. Bad pseudonym. Cheapish fountain pen, well used: the nib's been ground down somewhat by the writer's frequent use.  Blue-black ink, permanent, not water-soluble. Probably not Pelikan – Parker or Lamy. What about it?"

Polly's sigh gave John a good idea of what Sherlock might have sounded like as a younger man. "Look at the forest, Sherlock, not at the trees.  Pass me the basket at the end of the table, would you, please, John?" she asked.  John complied and she rifled through it and pulled out a post-card. "Right, now, look at, oh, this."  She passed the card to Sherlock, who had set the letters aside in favor of his own dish.

He set his fork down and took the card. "New Burbage, Ontario, Shakespeare festival, summer, 2010." He turned it over, and read aloud between eating. "Geoffrey Tennant is guest-directing _Merchant of Venice_ , John Malkovich playing Shylock, Helen outstanding as Por…" He dropped his fork, and set the card down next to the letter "…as Portia."  His hand went to his jacket and pulled out his mobile. 

" _Not_ at the table. I'm certain Mycroft will be able to tell you where she is just as easily in half an hour as right now." Polly picked her fork up.  Sherlock sighed like disgruntled teenager, but put the mobile back in his jacket pocket.

"She?" John asked, watching the pantomime between the two, setting his glass down.

"Of course.  Really, Sherlock, what _happened_ last Christmas? From what your mother said in her e-mails, it sounded rather as though World War III broke out in the Fens without anyone telling me _or_ offering me the popcorn concession." 

"Sorry, I'm not following – 'she?'"

"Yes, _she_."  Sherlock grumbled, setting his mobile down on top of the post card.  "Iphigenia."

"Iphigenia?"  John reluctantly set his own fork down, having learned the hard way that eating while engaging in (revelatory) conversation with Sherlock tended to be a choking hazard, "Who is Iphigenia?"

"Iphigenia," Sherlock said, picking his own fork back up and stabbing the shepherds' pie like a piece of junk mail on the mantel, "Is my _sister_."

"Sister? You mean there are _more_ of you? What does she do, run the military-industrial complex?"

"Oh, no, dear, that's Bredon," Polly answered, eating her own lunch with serenity that would not have looked out of place on a pre-Raphelite Christmas card.

"No," Sherlock continued, "That's _Paul_. But no, John. Iphigenia is a documentary filmmaker."

John was grateful he'd put his fork down.  "A what?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"I'm just trying to imagine…" John sipped his lemonade, "No, wait, actually, I really, really can see it. Beret, dictatorial attitude, megaphone, jodhpurs, riding boots, riding crop that her elder brother keeps stealing, camera custom made by enslaved Japanese elves…"

"Hand held digital video camera, actually.  Lighter, easier to take to shooting locations, much less likely to attract attention when she's filming humans. Seconds, Sherlock?"

"No, thank you, Aunt Polly."  John realized that Sherlock's plate was actually clean as Polly asked, and made another mental note to ask for the shepherds' pie recipe to go with the corner trick. Even the vegetables were gone.

"Well, then, let's take this to the lounge, shall we?  There's   trifle for pudding."

 

 

Miss Parker did, it seem, have a full-time staff. Chilever, her housekeeper, brought out a trifle so soaked in sherry that John was surprised it didn't spontaneously combust from sparks generated by the tea spoons (sterling) brushed against the lip of the tea cups (gold).  He supposed that the lead content of the crystal trifle bowl served as an insulator.

"So. What did you and Mycroft do this time, Sherlock?"  Polly sat back in the Danish modern arm chair opposite John & Sherlock on the Louis XV sofa, and set her tea cup on the end table.

A Blenheim Cavalier King Charles Spaniel climbed out of its basket, tennis ball in mouth, and dropped it in front of Sherlock.  It sat and looked at the dark-haired man expectantly.  Sherlock fixed the spaniel with a look and commented "Jasper, really. How long has it been since I've fallen for that?"

"Fallen…?"

"Fallen. The beast distracts you with the ball and then while you're retrieving it from behind the buffet, he steals your dessert.  Try John, he's much more gullible."

"Not when it comes to trifle, I'm not.  I am, however, sympathetic."  John handed Sherlock his trifle and rolled the ball down the hall. 

The spaniel looked at the ball, looked back at John, and then looked fixedly at the trifle.

"Sneak," Polly said fondly.  "Well, Sherlock?"

John took his trifle back from Sherlock before the younger man could poach his serving.

Sherlock sighed. "Iphigenia made her usual announcement of her plans for the upcoming year last Christmas eve, after the Glüchwein, brie, and bruschetta, but before the smoked salmon, caviar and blini."

"So far, custom and practice."  Polly commented.  "What were those plans?"

"An adaptation of the Shoah project for the Sudan."  Sherlock reached to his right and caught the dish of trifle that John dropped before it hit the floor.  He handed it back to the older man and licked a drop of whipped cream off of his thumb where it had spattered.

John focused on his trifle and tried hard to keep from hyperventilating in front of a lady who reminded him of his year 8 Latin teacher.

"Again, not particularly unusual for her. The family didn't object to her internship in Bosnia documenting Srebrenica," Polly pointed out.

"Oh, we objected.  Well. Father and Mycroft objected, and then Mycroft doubled the size of the protection detail that was assigned to the film crew.   As closely as that project followed on the actual massacre, such a large security team wasn't overly unusual. And she wasn't the only person on the production team: the crew added up to 15, not including translators."

"And her plan for this project did not include such a large team, I take it."

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight. She argued she'd be too easy to spot if she took a crew."

"She planned on going into southern Sudan on her own?" John wasn't quite sure why his voice sounded dismayed.  He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been told that Mycroft's plans for the new year included brokering a peace between Manchester United's and Liverpool's fans, after all.

"With a single translator that she would hire in Egypt, yes. She did."

"And you and Mycroft objected." Polly supplied.

"Mycroft, I, father and even _mother_ objected. Sherrinford might have objected if he'd been home at the time."

"Sherrinford?"  John looked at Polly.

"Youngest of the four of them." She answered.  "So everyone except Sherrinford objected to her plans."

"Indeed."

"And what did you do to convey this objection?"

"Well, there were words." Sherlock began picking at his trifle.

"Polysyllabic ones, I imagine. With icy tones of demand from your brother, no doubt."

Sherlock shrugged and waggled his head a bit. "Yes."

"And Jocasta and Siger? Their parents," she added, for John's benefit.

"Said they'd like to discuss it with her at a slightly less fraught time and suggested Boxing Day."

"By which time they had e-mailed me, and Iphigenia had departed."

"Yes."

"And you and Mycroft did what? You have to have done _something_ , Sherlock, she wouldn't have gone to this trouble otherwise."

" _I_ didn't do anything."  Sherlock said firmly.  "I didn't even explicitly take Mycroft's side. She hasn't needed my help to stand up to Mycroft since she figured out how to say the word 'no.'"

"So you simply stood behind him, near the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the library, ostensibly examining the state of the bindings of the 1912 _Brittanica_ , and nodding whenever he said something you agreed with? Looming, as it were, as backup?"

"Well…" Sherlock looked like he might dissemble. Polly fixed him with a glare. "Yes, that's about right."

"And what came of this attempt to brow-beat your sister, whose picture, I remind you, appears as part of our family portrait in the _OED_ next to the word 'obsinate?'"

"She finished her port, went up to bed, and left just after dinner Christmas day."

"Naturally.  Right, then, I assume Mycroft followed the next logical step and tried to blackmail her, and when that failed, tried to bribe her with that grant she's wanted to document the Great Barrier Reef."

"No, he just pulled her passport when she was in customs in Egypt in February."

Polly raised her eyebrow. "Sherlock, _what_ have I told you and Mycroft about showing your work?"

"Well it was obvious at Christmas that she wasn't going to be reasonable!"

"Reasonable. By which I take it you mean willing to be treated as a responsible, professional adult capable of making her own plans and decisions?"  Polly finished her trifle, set the bowl on the side table, and picked up her tea. "Mind, I agree that going into a war zone without appropriate security precautions is not exactly her finest example of thinking things out before implementation, but skipping both the steps of 'bribe' and 'blackmail' is almost always false efficiency, and you and your brother should both know that by now."

"Sorry, may I ask a question?"  John said before Sherlock could reply.  "How does any of this tie to her nominating _me_ for a knighthood? Surely she should be doing something like placing personal ads with Mycroft's mobile number in the 'adult services' section of Craigslist?"

"Well, yes," Sherlock answered, "and no doubt she would, except that when Mycroft had her passport pulled, she called me and asked me to help her get it back."

"Which, seeing as at the time you had nothing on except torturing some poor undergraduates in forensics in their lab practica while Lisa Stamford was laid up with her broken ankle, you decided not to do." John said.

"I declined her request, yes." 

"So she nominated me for a knighthood?"

"Think it through, John – what is the first thing, oh, say, D.I Dimmock or Sergeant Donovan are going to say to him the next time they call?"

John thought. "Well, given that he's appeared on the List, too… Sir Sherlock?"

"Oh, goody, first with the book!" Polly pulled out an A4 composition book. "I'll just put myself down for £20 on 'Lady Watson.'  That's assuming they'll be able to get through with the press calls."

"Press calls?"

"Dear, with your record and his looks, I'd wager another £20 that you and he are going to be _the_ couple for every social-climbing baboon's holiday party list."

John looked at Sherlock in alarm.  Sherlock nodded gloomily. "You _do_ own a tuxedo, don't you?  The rentals would bankrupt you."

"Oh, God."  John found the trifle bowl a bit heavy for his hand and set it on the table before he could try to drop it again. 

"Of course, you could take Harry or Sarah for your plus-ones," Sherlock commented, "but after the last date with Sarah…"

"I don't think she'll be accepting another invitation of mine. She said something about drawing the line at crazed upholsterers and staple guns after that business with the antiques forgeries. And Harry…"  John shrugged.

"Quite.  Which either leaves you as London – or all of England's – most eligible bachelor, now that Prince William has made his intentions toward Miss Middleton clear, or…"

"Or you and I go together, because then at least I don't have to write myself a large enough prescription for Thorazine to stun a herd of elephants."

"Memory, dear." Polly corrected, pouring herself more tea.

"Sorry?"  John asked.

"A memory of elephants, not a herd.  Now, as for Mycroft, I expect she's done something like sign him up for a 5 week hiking tour of western Canada in the springtime."

"Oh, no, he'd just cancel that," Sherlock mused. "And besides, there's no element of public humiliation. And she'll really _want_ that bit."

"Oh? What did he do after pulling her passport?"

"He issued her one with a single destination."

"And that was…?"

"Athens.  A project she'd turned down for the Greek board of Tourism."

"Which, naturally, she ignored."

"Indeed."

"Leaving her…?"

"Stuck with Sherrinford, on a yacht, in the middle of the Mediterranean, for 3 weeks."

Polly blinked.  "Oh, dear.  I do hope her liver survived."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**E-mail Correspondence of I. Holmes, M. Parker, and J. Watson, November 1, 2010 – November 2, 2010**

 

From:   Polly.Parker@gmail.co.uk

To:     ITHolmes@ThislemoFilms.co.uk

Re:     Last Christmas

 

Dearest Iphigenia,

 

I can certainly understand your frustration with both Mycroft & Sherlock. One would have thought that with the proper upbringing your parents lavished on you, they would have understood that the proper order of operations was 'disapproval, _bribery, blackmail_ , brute force,' and that unlike the commutative property, reversing the order would have a significant impact on the outcome of the product.  This is, naturally, ignoring the more serious offence of Mycroft's lack of imagination: if this is the level of attention he brings to family, I may have to re-think some of my long-term investments in southeast Asia.  I have had words with Sherlock on the subject, and will be having them with both your mother and Mycroft at our next engagement. 

 

I also must extend my congratulations on the subtlety of your revenge: certainly the papers have been buzzing over the new It Couple of Baker St.  I understand that there are offers of a reality television series, and it appears from the chatter on John's blog that the ribbing of Sherlock has begun in earnest. 

 

I fear, however, that you may have miscalculated in your expectations about Sherlock's reaction.  I expect you were aiming at aggravated and embarrassed. What you may have gotten is distracted and impeded (see previous re tabloids and reality television producers) and not quite sufficiently debauched or depraved.  Might I suggest opening a direct line of communication with Dr. Watson? He does not quite seem to be taking the hint, and watching the pair of them is almost as bad as watching you and Penelope. (On that note, if you aren't going to take steps on your own, I will. I'm quite sick of watching your generation be dunderheaded about their affections and prepared to utilize weapons of mass media destruction in order to see my family properly settled.)

 

I do look forward to seeing what Mycroft is in for: does it involve fluffy blankets? 

 

Looking forward to seeing you at the Investiture Ceremonies.

 

Love,

 

Aunt Polly

 

 

From:   ITHolmes@ThislemoFilms.co.uk

To:       Polly.Parker@gmail.co.uk

Re:       Mycroft

 

Rabbits

 

\--Iphigenia

 

 

From:   JHWatson@johnwatsonblog.co.uk

To:       ITHolmes@ThislemoFilms.co.uk

Re:       Parcel

 

Dear Ms. Holmes:

 

Why is there a large Amazon package stocked with what appears to be Nutella, 400-thread count sheets, a spatula, a set of paintbrushes, an assortment of flavoured lubricants and condoms, and copies of the _Gay Kama Sutra_ and _The Topping Book_ addressed to me with a note reading 'love from Genie, Penelope and Polly' sitting in my surgery?  The level of disruption you've caused with your little joke is getting out of hand.

 

John Watson

 

From:   ITHolmes@ThislemoFilms.co.uk

To:       JWatson@johnwatsonblog.co.uk

Re:       Re: Honourary parcel

 

Dear Dr. Watson,

 

Please rest assured that although the nomination's _form_ was intended to aggravate Blondie, the substance of it was wholly sincere, and certainly not a joke.  I apologize for the disruptions.

 

As for the parcel, I'm sure you can use your imagination.

 

I look forward to meeting you in December, if not sooner.

 

Best,

 

Genie

 

From:   PHMWimsey@duchyofdenver.co.uk

To:       ITHolmes@ThislemoFilms.co.uk

Re:       Parcel?

 

Ducks --

 

Just got the weirdest text from Crichton at my Picadilly flat: why did you send me a copy of the _Sapphic Verses_ from Aunt Polly's house? Nothing's wrong with mine: it's right on the shelf where it belongs, between Praxilla and Telecleides...

 

\--Widgeon

 

From:   ITHolmes@ThislemoFilms.co.uk

To:       PHMWimsey@duchyofdenver.co.uk

Re:       Re: Parcel?

 

Dear Penelope,

 

Are you back in London? This may take some time to explain.

 

\--Iphigenia

 

 

**Rememberance Sunday, November 14, 2010, St. Mary's Church, London W1H**

 

"Lady Watson not with you today, Sir John?"  The shout made John look up, and a camera's flash blinded him as he walked out of the annual memorial service.  The look he fixed on the photographer had successfully brought ward matrons and even injured sergeant majors to heel, but did not appear to have the desired effect on paparazzi.  John resorted to physical deterrent instead, and pulled the man out of the middle of the wheelchair ramp, over the rail, and on to the main pavement.

"If it is at all possible," he said, as a pensioner in World War II uniform and poppy slid by, "do you think you might locate what shred of decency you might have been born with?" The pensioner was accompanying a man John's age short a left foot, nodded their thanks to John as they finally got down to the street.

"Public street, mate."  The photographer replied, still snapping photos, close ups of John's rage doubtless feeding his own Christmas bonus fantasies.

"So it is."  John said, and 'bumped' into the photographer.  The rail end hit the camera bag, which jabbed the man sharply in the kidneys. The photographer doubled over, and John smiled without humour. "Do watch your step."

He stepped back and walked toward Marleybone Road.  He noticed the steps following him at the zebra crossing, and waited until they caught up to him before he turned sharply on the two women following him. "Look, do you _mind_? Really, is an hour on Sunday too much to ask?"

"Not at all," a blonde his own height in a black trench coat, poppy on the lapel, with pale grey eyes replied.  "As it happens, though, I'm afraid I have an invitation."  She smiled, and the cheekbones clued him in. Unlike her brothers, her smiles were more than social niceties. They reached her eyes, and the crows' feet the smiles brought out revealed a tendency to squint.

"You're Iphigenia."

She nodded.

John turned to her companion, who had the same cheekbones, trench coat and poppy, but auburn hair.  "And you are...?"

The shorter woman extended her hand. "Lady Penelope Wimsey.  Pleased to make your acquaintance."

John automatically returned the handshake. "And you're..."

"With Ducks here, yes."

"Ducks...?"

"We were at school together."  Iphigenia explained.  "Aunt Polly mentioned you'd had some trouble.  I thought I might take Blondie up on his invitation to tea and apologize in person."

"Tea. He actually invited you to tea?"

"He didn't _not_ invite me to tea when he invited Penelope." 

"About that," John said, as they walked around the Marleybone tube station and toward Dorset Square, "why do you call Sherlock, 'Blondie?'"

Iphigenia chuckled, pulled her mobile out of her Burberry's pocket and clicked for a minute before passing it to John.

Before him was a family portrait: parents, four children.  All of them shared the Holmes (and apparently, Wimsey) cheekbones.

Every last one of them was blond.

Penelope explained, "the clue's in the name: Sherlock, meaning fair-haired." 

"So when did it turn dark?"  John asked, handing the mobile back to Iphigenia.  She tucked it back into her coat pocket.

"About," Iphigenia said, using a key John didn't know she had to let them into the building, "the same time he discovered L'Oreal Professional worked much, much better than the Just for Men Minty uses."

"Minty?"

"Mycroft had an unfortunate encounter with the chlorine during his swimming at Harrow." Penelope explained.

John's mobile chirped: he glanced at it, and got the mail from the side table by the front door before they climbed the stairs, and pulled a pen out of his interior suit jacket pocket.

Sherlock, apparently, was still locked in battle with his data, and was typing on his laptop loudly enough to be heard from the stairs.  "Thanks," he said, as John passed him the pen before taking the mail into the kitchen.  "Hello, Penelope."

"Sherlock," Lady Penelope replied, helping herself to a coat hook before taking Iphigenia's coat. "How're the ballistics panel data coming?"

"Blunt-instruments, now."

She peered over his shoulder at the laptop screen. "Ah. So they are."

Sherlock reached for the mouse, and she noticed the new watch with a caduceus and crown on its face in enamel and titanium sitting on the desk next to the laptop.  The identity disc discreetly mounted on the back of the bezel had left indentations in Sherlock's wrist just below his left ulna notch:

 

GEN O

3915478

HJ NOSTAW 

CMAR

EC

 

"Did the 'frozen' matter?"

"Not for cricket bats, but temperature _does_ make a difference for metals."

"Oh, good. I'll be sure to let Roger know."  Penelope settled into Sherlock's arm chair and pulled a forensics journal out from the magazine rack next to the fireplace.  Iphigenia sat across from her, mobile back in hand, scrolling through and replying to texts.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it."  Sherlock fixed his sister with a look. " _You_ I'm still not talking to."

"I'm just heartbroken."  Iphegenia replied. "John, would you like some help with the tea?"

John stuck his head out of the kitchen door. "You're joking, right?"

"She really isn't." Sherlock answered.  "It's a mystery to the rest of us. Mycroft is fairly certain there was a mix-up at the hospital."

"You're just jealous she gets better press than you do," John retorted, coming back out to the sitting room with the mail.  "Sherlock, when did we contribute to the RSPCA?"

"We haven't.  I certainly haven't."  Sherlock turned around and looked at John sharply.  "Why 'we?'"

"S. and J. Holmes-Watson, 221B Baker St…" John handed him the brown envelope.  "More fallout? It's a bit big for an invitation…" he crossed behind Penelope, took the jackknife out of the fireplace and used it to open the envelope.  "Annual fundraising report?"  He handed the glossy magazine to Sherlock.

"List of donors, ah, here it is – invitation to Christmas ball. A mere £500 a head."  Sherlock handed the card to John, and kept flipping through the magazine.

"Lovely." John looked at the invitation, and nearly choked.  "Sherlock, did you _look_ at this?"  He handed the invitation to Penelope, who burst into giggles at the cover photo on the card.

"Oh, dear. Poor Minty. Can't say the puppy looks too thrilled, either."  She handed it back to John, who tossed the invitation into an ancient-looking Gladstone bag on the window seat that was overflowing with similar cards.  

The afternoon sun glinted against the signet ring on his hand as he did so, and caught Iphigenia's eye.  She looked up from behind her mobile, smiled, caught Penelope's eye, and glanced over at Sherlock.  The watch was in his hand, and he running the band between his thumb and finger.

Sherlock broke into a wide grin. "Oh, I don't know," he said, "I think we might want to go to this one."  He passed the magazine over the desk to John, who glanced at it, and started giggling. 

"You know, I think we just might. If for no other reason than the photographs."

Sherlock buckled the watch on.  "All right," he looked at Iphigenia. "Well done.  I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven."  Iphigenia replied.  "Speaking to me again?"

"Yes – so long as I get a print of these."

"Oh, you will." Iphigenia smiled. "It's already at the framer's."

 "Excellent. One for John, too?"

"Of course."

"Brilliant."

"Thought you'd approve."

"Full marks. Who's handing out the awards this year?"

Iphigenia smiled.  "Aunt Polly, of course."

Penelope reached back. "John, may I? I haven't seen this one yet."

"Of course, Lady Penelope."  John passed the glossy to Penelope. The sun glinted off the signet ring on his right hand again.

Penelope smiled as she looked at the centre-fold RSPCA print of Mycroft Holmes holding a small, fluffy, grey and white, blue-eyed kitten.  "Please, John, you're part of the family now.  Call me Penelope."

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer applies: This story is based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, characters created and owned by Dorothy L. Sayers, Aaron Sorkin and Donald Bellisario, and on situations created, owned and in circulation by Steven Moffatt, Mark Gatiss, the BBC Wales, Heartswood Film and Masterpiece Mystery, Aaron Sorkin, Warner Bros. Inc., Donald Bellisario, and Bellisarius Productions among others. No money is being made by the author from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All rights remain the owners'.


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